


bare necessities

by RaeOfFrickingSunshine



Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: Bit of nudity, F/M, a lot of fluster, honestly just mostly fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25599322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaeOfFrickingSunshine/pseuds/RaeOfFrickingSunshine
Summary: the five times they were unintentionally undressed, and the one time they weren't
Relationships: JJ/Kiara (Outer Banks)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 212
Collections: Jiara July Jubilee





	bare necessities

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!!
> 
> welcome to the submission for jiara july jubilee - 5+1 format day.
> 
> this is the best prompt ever and i had so much fun. idk how but i've managed to make this the least sexy fic ever despite the decidedly sexual context. it's a talent i also possess in real life, so at least i'm consistant.
> 
> enjoy!!

_*_

_one._

Life as an only child means privacy is something she enjoys in abundance. There are locks on the bathrooms and her parents knock politely on her bedroom door before they come in. Not only do they knock, but they also properly wait for her to shout her consent before they enter.

The Chateau is a different story. It’s full of almost empty Axe cans and wholly empty beer bottles. The stubs of joints and cigarettes in makeshift ashtrays. The lock on the bathroom has been kicked in, re-fixed, and then kicked in again. The doors to the bedrooms don’t shut completely; if someone stands on the wrong floorboard, they swing open.

The boys barely register closed doors. They slam through unapologetically. Kiara’s not sure why, but JJ spends most of his time at the Chateau. John B and JJ share the same floordrobe and cook meals together (although cooking is a stretch for the concoctions the pair of them muster up).

There doesn’t seem to be much semblance of privacy between JJ and John B. Kiara sees them shoving each other out the way to get into the bathroom. Has seen them saunter in to to use the toilet whilst the shower’s still running. Has seen JJ and John B swapping shorts, shirts – she’s pretty confident she’s seen the waistband of the same boxers above the jeans of both boys just days apart.

She’s unused to the sheer amount of exposed skin. John B’s unbuttoned Hawaiian shirts. The arms JJ slashes off old t-shirts, right down to the base of his ribs. Even Pope neglects to button his shirts half the time, though the colours he wears are more muted.

She gets changed in the Chateau as close to the door as she can. Within arm’s reach, so she can slam it shut if anyone comes near. Hinge side, so she could be vaguely shielded by the door should anyone enter.

The one time she abandons the rigmarole is when the Chateau’s empty. Her shift down at The Wreck overruns, her phone buzzing every five minutes in her back pocket. It’s John B and Pope spamming the group chat, demanding she gets her ass down to the Boneyard. John B sends a picture of JJ with the keg hose directed into his open mouth.

Kiara yells to her dad she’s going to Tiffany’s; vaults the counter and jogs the half mile to the Chateau. Her feet are black from the kitchen and the run, the imprint of her sandals clear on her skin. There’s a spare key in the headless gnome by the backdoor (although it definitely takes three shoulder shoves to persuade the door to permit entry).

The shower is always lacklustre. There’s precisely one bottle of body wash slash shampoo slash conditioner, which makes her suspicious. It smells like the generic over chemicalised boy scent that all corporations think should sell well. Her hair is definitely going to protest to the unduly harsh treatment, but she persists in the name of hygiene.

There are several towels on the floor, all at varying stages of cleanliness and dryness. Kiara selects one from the middle. Takes a beer from the fridge to shotgun, because John B’s texting is becoming increasingly incoherent and she doesn’t want to fall behind too much. Starts playing Rihanna because JJ isn’t around to complain about her unhealthy obsession, or make some crude comment about her music choice and connotations.

She’s got her hair in the towel and is struggling into her bralette, a few grunts and cuss words escaping as a strap gets somehow tangled in the towel and over her shoulder. Her skin is still clammy from the shower and so the straps get all ruched on it. She always falls into the trap of going for bralettes which are super cute but should probably come with an instruction manual or a map.

She’s muttering, “why the fuck are there so many straps? Who needs this many straps?” when a voice says, “holy shit.”

Kiara shrieks, spins around, flings an arm over her chest. Remains all caught up in her bralette which still has too many straps and too much fabric and is wedged over one shoulder, her arm trapped at an extremely unorthodox angle.

JJ’s got his eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling, his cheek’s a flushed red.

“What the hell? Don’t look!”

“Regrettably, I am so not looking.” JJ’s voice is muffled behind his hands, which he’s now clamped over his face.

“Get the fuck out!”

“I’m going, I’m going!”

He crashes into the open door which rebounds with a bang off the wall, then he collides with the drywall next to the door. On the third attempt he makes it through. Kiara kicks the door shut and glares at it in betrayal.

It takes some manoeuvring to struggle her way into the bralette. She picks up a t-shirt off the floor and ties it into a crop at the bottom. Takes a moment to permit herself to freak out. Rihanna is still singing cheerfully in the background.

“I thought you were at the Boneyard,” she grouses as she emerges from the room, head high, refusing to give him the satisfaction of her embarrassment. Literally any of the boys would have been better than JJ – there was no dignity in the angle he’d seen her from.

“In my defence, you were in my room,” he points out in a mumble. “John B’s door actually shuts.”

“Big John’s,” she corrects, and he jerks his chin in dismissal. “Besides, John B has all those photographs of him in his and I kind of feel like his younger self is watching me. It’s creepy.”

If it was John B, he would be tripping over himself to apologise. Pope wouldn’t have the courage to look her in the face for weeks. But it’s JJ, so Kiara’s braced for months of innuendos and teasing. Maybe something about her boobs, which would be a real low point. She’s aware that her right one is less even than the left. It’s not something she wants JJ Maybank to also point out.

Her ears are burning and she stares at the floor at his feet. She doesn’t want to feel embarrassed – it’s not like she’s done something wrong, or anything. Just had the gall to exist in a world which wants to dictate women’s bodies.

“Hey.” Her gaze flickers to his face despite her best intentions of just studiously ignoring whatever just went on. “I’m not gonna tell anyone or anything. I swear, I closed my eyes like, straight away. Didn’t even see anything.”

It definitely sounds like a lie, but his eyes are trained steadily on hers, his mouth in a firm line.

Kiara says, “okay,” in a small voice and his gaze flicks away.

“I mean – I don’t know if you’re supposed to fight your way into those things. It sounded like you were grappling a ‘gator or something, not just wrestling the girls into submission.”

It’s nonchalant and inflammatory and precisely the right thing to say, because she’s scowling instead of blushing.

“Oh my God, I hate you. I’d like to see you try. There’s a billion straps and not a lot of room. It’s basically quantum physics. Also – the girls? Jesus Christ, JJ.”

“Why not just get one of those ones that – I don’t know – buckles up?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is my underwear choice not conforming to your expectations?”

It’s easier to snipe than to dwell. JJ’s hands have stilled where they’re lighting a joint, his eyes not meeting hers.

“I mean, I usually have the opposite problem. Girls are normally fighting their way out of underwear around me.”

“Sure they are, Casanova.” Kiara steals the blunt from his lips, inhales deeply. She closes her eyes as she exhales and when she opens them again for a moment she swears his gaze is trained on the multitude of delicate straps around her neck, exposed by the collar of the t-shirt that’s definitely not hers. But it must be her imagination or something, because next thing he’s standing up, stretching his arms above his head.

“Let’s go. Some chick was like five inches away from my dick and I’d like to narrow that margin.”

“You’re a disgrace to the human race.”

“Oh baby, I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

(JJ goes back to who Kiara presumes is that chick as soon as they get to The Boneyard. John B beckons her to the space in front of a speaker and she does the cha-cha all the way over to make him laugh. They reconvene with Pope and collapse into the sand just above the high tide mark, where the sand’s dry and liquid under their palms.

JJ throws himself down with a sigh which makes her jump, because she’d just assumed he’d taken off with that girl. Kiara can tell he’s high because he’s still, boneless, like his skeleton could melt right into the sand. Touchy, as well. Lifts one hand to trace the straps criss-crossing behind her neck. Even hooks the pad of his pinkie under one. It’s dark and John B’s re-enacting some scene in front of them, so Kiara permits it. Just this once.)

*

_two._

Kiara likes showers. Likes watching the sand and the dirt she invariably picks up throughout the day wash down the drain. The Chateau’s tub is off white, and there’s a rim of black gunk under the sealant, but once she washes the worst of the hair down the drain before getting in, it’s passable.

She’s started coming over directly after her shifts to avoid her parent’s pursed lips and disapproving gazes. Always has a spare change of clothes in a drawer. Big John’s barely around anymore – Kiara hasn’t seen him in weeks. Summers are usually worse. He leaves John B for days and days without word.

John B’s promised that he’d cook dinner. He’s also mentioned something about a potential house party a few blocks away. Kiara can hear Pope’s baritone as he debates the nutritional value of having Kraft mac and cheese for the third night this week. Which, considering it’s only Thursday, is impressive.

There’s now shampoo and conditioner and a separate body wash, which is a vast upgrade. John B’s beginning to realise girls exist and step up his non-existent game accordingly. They’re not sulphate free, and they still dry out her hair, but they’re an improvement on the all in one bottle.

She has been trying to get them onto shampoo and conditioner bars to remove the unnecessary single use plastic. It was going as well as anticipated.

“Kie! Don’t you dare steal all the hot water! Kie!”

The words are punctuated by hammering at the bathroom door. Kiara ignores the shouts, continues singing as she shaves her legs with a razor she found next to the sink. It only has rust on the very edges of the blades, which is better than the sorry state of the other three littered around the bathroom.

“Kie! I need hot water! What the hell are you even doing in there, anyway?” JJ rattles the handle, mutters something under his breath. “You’re not the only one with hygiene standards!”

“Could’ve fooled me!” she chirps back innocently, and then goes back to ignoring his protests.

The bathroom’s filled with the billows of steam from the shower’s uncertain, sputtering spray. There’s no shower mat or grips on the bath’s smooth base, so she has to hold onto the shower curtain for purchase as she hops on one leg to reach her lower leg. Eventually rests her ankle on the side for stability.

There’s the sound of booted feet retreating from the door and Kiara smirks in victory. Swipes the razor down her calf, the shower pattering reassuringly on her shoulders. 

The spray turns from inhumanly hot to icy cold in an instant and Kiara shrieks, leaping away reflexively. Her leg slips from the perch on the side of the tub. The hand with the razor windmills frantically, her other still fisted in the shower curtain. All seems well as she leans hard, maintaining her balance. Then the flimsy plastic hooks holding the curtain to the rail pop theatrically, one by one. She can envision what’s going to happen before it does – and then her foot in the tub slips. She lands with a thud on the ceramic base, one leg elevated, the shower curtain tangled over her body. The myriad of bottles land with a clatter next to her (why are they allergic to throwing empty bottles away? Seriously – it’s a game of roulette to actually find some product), and there’s a stinging sensation near her knee.

“Kie! Kie? You okay?” JJ’s voice is back at the door, this time less despairing, more… anxious, maybe. “Kiara? You hit your head?”

The fall’s winded her, but she thinks she can flex all her limbs.

“I’m fine!” she calls, but it’s weak, and possibly drowned out by the pounding water.

“Kie!” JJ calls again. “You better not be fucking around!”

“I’m good!”

The water’s heating up again and she struggles to get purchase on the side of the tub as she pushes herself onto her elbows.

“Hang on, I’m coming in!”

It gives her approximately two seconds notice before the make shift latch on the door is ripped from it’s bed once more. Fortunately the curtain’s covering everything vital, but it’s also one of those curtains that sticks to your skin once wet, taking no prisoners. Kiara’s always thought that was potentially the greatest design flaw, considering it’s literal job was to hang in a shower, a place renowned for being damp.

“JJ!” she snaps, as the boy enters the bathroom shortly after the door flies open. His arms are in front of him like some movie ninja, eyes shooting to her. “What the fuck?”

“You weren’t answering!” he explains hotly, and he’s not looked away this time. Just stares at her in the tub, knee hooked over the side, razor in one hand. “Is that blood?”

Kiara twists her head, one hand clamped to keep her plastic veil of modesty. There are rusty tendrils of something swirling down the drain. It definitely looks like more blood than it is, diluted heavily by the shower water.

“I probably cut myself on the way down,” she dismisses, and she starts trying to pull her leg back into the tub so she can lever herself upwards. “Can you get out now?”

“Are you sure it’s not your head-” he’s stepping closer, frowning, hands hovering near her ankle but not touching her.

“Please leave!”

JJ holds up his hands, backs away. Stops and frowns. “Is that my razor?”

“Jesus Christ – get out!”

“You better not be putting that anywhere unsanitary. I use that on my _face_ , Kie. And other places, actually-”

“Leave!”

“Here,” he pushes at her foot so her ankle unhooks itself and slides to join the rest of her body at the bottom of the bath. It’s undignified. Her hair’s plastered to her face and her knee stings sharply, plus the shower’s still running. There’s the minor fact that she’s naked, under a mostly see through shower curtain. JJ’s gaze has been generally averted but he’s definitely seen her – looked for obvious injuries, noticed the razor.

Now she can curl her legs under her, Kiara struggles into a sitting position. “JJ, if I have to tell you one more time to get out, I swear to God-”

“You could say thank you for giving a shit, but fine, have it your way. You could have been dead, drowning, could be bleeding out on the floor-”

“Well if someone hadn’t turned the hose on, I wouldn’t have slipped in the first place-”

JJ smirks widely, sticks his hands in his back pockets. “I thought you were all about water preservation and saving the planet. Your insanely long showers say otherwise.”

“Get out!”

He’s halfway out the door when he sticks his head back around. “By the way, I totally saw your nipple.”

Kiara hurls a bottle of body wash at the door, narrowly missing the opening.

When she gets out the shower there’s a box of bandaids waiting on Big John’s bed. The cut to her knee has long stopped bleeding, but she sticks a Pikachu bandaid over it anyway, just to amp up the guilt factor. JJ’s eyes catch on it when she wanders in, towel drying her hair. He looks from the bandaid to her face. Hands her a beer, then a joint. His fingertips skim over the bandaid briefly, later on, when it’s the two of them in the hammock. It’s the closest she’ll get to an apology.

For the proceeding three months, every single time JJ showers when Kiara’s in the Chateau, she turns the hose on outside as penance. It gets to the point where he leaves the bathroom window open to bargain with her – calling _Kie, c’mon Kie, I’ll let you watch that nature documentary if you just – GODDAMNIT, woman!_

_*_

_three._

Kiara’s heard of JJ’s reputation. The girls at school talk about him. Her association isn’t precisely a secret, now. Ever since Sarah unceremoniously dumped her, left her in the dust, Kiara’s posting Instagram stories from the HMS Pogue. Tags herself in the various locations around The Cut. Has thrown herself headfirst back into the old friendship with a vengeance.

There’s no precedent for a friendship break-up. She wants to spam Sarah with memes about Boomers and Gen Z, she wants to send her the link from a TED talk that made Kiara cry; wants to talk about the new research into solar panels which can also be used as roads. She sends them to Pope instead, and he responds politely, before returning with some article about crime scene degradation through the rate of decomposition in differing climates, which is kind of interesting but also majorly disgusting.

Pope had warned her vaguely that JJ and John B are hurtling head first off the tracks without Big John’s presence, no matter how remote that guidance had become in recent years.

She’s heard of JJ’s reputation, but it’s something on her periphery. Something she’s aware of but never really focussed on. Before, it was something to joke about, something to chew him out over. She’d slide a palm towards Pope and take bets as to who he’d be targeting next. Kiara almost usually won – his type is plain as day. Short, petite blondes.

Kiara may have noticed his type is the polar opposite of her. But that’s just an idle comparison. Nothing more.

(She does notice he goes for people with humour, with bite. Who push back against him with sarcasm and fire. So at least her lectures on strong women haven’t gone completely unheard.)

This evening’s girl is actually someone Kiara had been speaking to earlier about the irreparable damage big corporations were doing to the natural Earth. She’s self-aware enough to know that when she gets drunk she gets kind of handsy and passionate – arms flailing, stamping her feet in the sand and snapping _fuck Amazon, fuck Jeff Bezos, what about the actual Amazon, huh? The lungs of the Earth. He could end world poverty but no – buy another fancy watch, pay your workers minimum wage._

JJ had been situated to her right, the girl to her left. His eyes are vaguely tracking Kiara; as she snatches the joint from his lips, as she steals sips from his cup. He relinquishes each one, stretched against the driftwood like a panther. Then Kiara had left for a top up and now here she is, ten foot away, drawn to a stop. JJ has his hand on the girl’s knee, the other flicking with the ever-present Zippo lighter. There’s no space in between them for Kiara to slide back down into – she doesn’t like her chances of becoming a third wheel next to them.

Instead Kiara stomps off and finds a small group of the less obnoxious from the Academy. There’s some guy who Kiara thinks may be vaguely flirting with her. Sam Dale looks at her in class a lot, or touches her arm when she speaks to him.

He also gets extremely flustered and the conversation goes precisely nowhere when it’s just the two of them. Kiara feels her heart isn’t in it, or her fuse is short. Ends up hooking an arm around Pope’s neck and sitting next to him, cheek against his shoulder. John B’s talking animatedly to someone across the fire, beer spilling from the solo cup in one hand.

Eventually she has to pee and wanders away from the group. Ends up sitting in the sand, a half empty solo cup in one hand. Something’s heavy in stomach, curdled like sour milk. Kiara kicks at the sand with one conversed foot. Sighs as she gets sand in her shoe. It was inevitable really, but she’s still irritated. Pope and John B are distracted and JJ’s somewhere unknown. No one notices her absence, no one comes looking. It’s self-centred and self-pitying (which makes her dislike herself that little bit harder) but she also thinks it may be justified.

Maybe she’s been away from the boys for too long. The hole she’s left has healed over and now she’s just digging at scar tissue, trying to force her way back in.

The walk to the Chateau isn’t too far. Kiara shakes the headless gnome to free the spare key, but finds it empty. Upon further inspection, the key’s in the door and the door’s ajar in its frame. Frowning, Kiara pushes it open with one finger. The hinges protest in a muted groan.

The door to Big John slash JJ’s room is also ajar.

Kiara’s lonely and wants weed, or a cigarette. She’ll settle for his Juul at this point, although he always gets the flavours she hates to deter her from stealing it.

“JJ-” she starts as she steps through the door, and then stops abruptly.

Her first thought is _that’s a lot of skin._

The second is _Jesus Christ, does that girl even have bones in her legs? How did they get up there?_

The third is unbidden, uncensored. _Oh, so that’s what he’d look like._

The girl sees her first (it’s the blonde from earlier – the one who agreed that they should all eat the rich) and she shrieks, scrabbles at the covers. “What the _fuck_?”

JJ has a frown pinching his eyebrows together; a look of concentration. Then he’s looking over to assess the interruption, pausing.

“Oh, hey Kie.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Kiara breezes.

“Then don’t,” the blonde girl snipes. JJ’s gaze returns to her, kind of detached, as though his arms aren’t on her lower thighs and as though nothing else is going on.

“It’s cool,” JJ is half smirking, quickly trying to hide it. “You okay?”

“No,” the blonde complains. She’s unfolding her legs and JJ’s pulling away. Kiara averts her eyes to the ceiling, taps a toe. “Are you just gonna stay here?” the girl demands.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” Even though she’s distinctly not. “JJ – where did you put the weed?”

“There should be the back up stash in the creepy vase on the window,” JJ’s sitting up now and Kiara should not be staring at his arms. The veins are all prominent around his wrists and it’s a little distracting.

“Cool, thanks. Well, have fun guys. Sorry about the interruption.”

“There’s always room for one more,” JJ calls after her, but there’s something hissed between the blonde’s teeth which sounds like it’s definitely contrary to that statement.

It takes her longer than JJ to roll a successful joint. Hers aren’t as graceful or even, but they’re functional. JJ’s lighter is the only reliable one on the premises, so she has to do with a box of matches retrieved from the kitchen drawer. It’s retro and she likes letting them burn right down her fingers – feeling the quickest, sharpest lick of pain before she waves them in the air to extinguish them.

“And John B worries about me and fire,” says a wry voice. The screen door slams shut behind him and JJ strides out, pulling off his hat, swiping a hand through his hair, then re-setting it on his head. “You enjoy the show?” he asks with a smirk. Steals the joint on the way past. He raises an eyebrow at the rolling and Kiara kicks him with her bare toe at the wordless criticism.

“You sure wrapped things up fast.”

There’s nothing but his sharp inhale, the paper burning with the faintest of crackles. He holds a deliberate breath, then exhales through his nose. The smoke fades into a cloud above his head. “Apparently your little camo killed the vibe.”

Kiara hums, holds her hand out for the joint. “Shame. She seemed cool.”

“She was pretty cool.”

“What was her name?” JJ’s rarely completely still, which is the only reason she notices his hesitation. She definitely shouldn’t laugh about this, but her lips are curving upwards. “JJ, what was her name? The girl you’ve spent all night with? The girl you’ve-”

“Jenny or Jimmy or something.”

“Jimmy? Her name was Jimmy?”

“Or something,” he finishes primly.

“You’re the worst.”

“I was kind of otherwise engaged.”

“So just went from nought to zero? No hi-hello-how are you’s? Just straight in with the tongue, was it?”

“Are you trying to critique my performance, Carrera?”

“All I’m saying is she has a brain as well as a body.”

He’s got a beer in one hand, some can which hisses loudly as he cracks the seal. “She wasn’t so interested in talking to me either.” Kiara thinks he aims for nonchalant, cocky. Instead it just sounds plaintive, a little sad.

Kiara leans forward to hand the joint back over, bridging the gap between couch and armchair. His legs are hooked over the sides, feet dangling loosely.

There’s silence. Kiara tilts her head to rest on the back of the couch. Closes her eyes.

“Why you back here alone anyway? Last thing I saw, some Kook guy was all over you like a rash.”

Kiara hesitates. Stares at her hand. “Wasn’t really in the mood for a rager.”

“You, Kiara Carrera, not in the mood? Am I dreaming?”

“I’m really fucking lonely.”

It feels like something should change, with the confession. Some cosmic shift. But JJ barely turns his head. Taps ash from the end of the joint held loosely between his fingers.

“Woah, don’t hold back there, Captain.”

“Shut up. I just – do you ever just feel really small and insignificant? And what if this is just it? Forever? Am I always going to just feel like I’m perpetually waiting for something to happen? What am I waiting for?”

“Pope’s better at this shit. He could tell you the actual meaning of life.”

“Nah, he could tell me the origins of life. Everyone’s pretty stumped on the actual meaning.”

“We all are, Kie. Why does there have to be a meaning? What if this is it? You just gotta get on with it.”

“Oh, I missed your optimism. My own personal ray of sunshine. Can always count on you.”

JJ doesn’t look at her. Looks out across the backyard, which is growing darker as the sun disappears. The side of his face is silvery, shadowed. It highlights his jawline, the cheekbones that are growing more prominent as he matures. “Missed you too.”

He can pass the joint without looking and she can take it. They can sit in silence that makes Pope awkward, or which John B rushes to fill. Kiara’s never seen JJ be so quiet with anyone else – his mouth is always running, he’s always moving, tripping over words and furniture, jumping around between objects and topics.

He says, “it’s gonna be okay, y’know. Everything is.”

“Your ass is as white as the moon,” she informs him.

“Yours isn’t.”

Kiara grins at the porch ceiling.

*

_four._

John B’s off chasing gold, and Pope’s off chasing scholarships.

John B grunts dismissively when Kiara asks if she can take the Pogue out. She’s had another argument with her parents – the kind which sits heavy in the gut, and no one comes out on top. Her grades have slipped ever so slightly this year. Kiara thinks it’s probably the whole Sarah fallout thing, but of course they go straight to their favourite of blaming the boys.

Her boys. The boys who ground her – the boys who know how to pull her from her funks. Who bring out her maternal side, who listen to her rants and watch her back despite her never asking. They don’t snipe about her outfits or her grades. They don’t dismiss her plans and insist she’ll go to college, and that her aspirations are just a phase.

John B’s holed up in his dad’s study, running hands through his blonde tipped hair and squinting at maps on the wall. Kiara thinks they should probably do something about that, but they’ve all learnt it’s best to leave him be for an hour or two.

“I’ll be back in an hour!” she calls to him as she takes the boat’s keys from the bent nail by the door.

She needs to do something physical. Rixon’s is dead, barely a ripple in the water, never mind an actual wave capable of propelling a human body. The sun’s high in the sky and blazing hotly. It’s the perfect weather for a swim.

The Pogue’s bobbing in the water, tied securely to the jetty. Kiara sets about unhitching it, her actions snatched and harried. Her mom’s parting shot still stings.

_You’re going to outgrow them one day, and wonder what all this was all about. Then you’ll realise what a waste it’s been._

Kiara never asked them to pay all the money on her school fees. She knows her dad has to work doubly hard at The Wreck just to keep up with the payments. There are so many extra-curricular trips she wants to go on, but she passes them up without even considering asking her parents for more. Buys school supplies with her wage from The Wreck. Constantly understates her hours in the books so she doesn’t take more than she really needs. And she’s still disjointed – doesn’t fit in with the students with their latest fashion trends, trust funds and vacations. They all spend their summers interning at family businesses or catching tans on beaches far from here.

The controls always stick to the left, which Kiara keeps saying needs sorting. There’s a trick to firing the ignition – the key has to be wiggled slightly anti-clockwise and pushed backwards before being twisted sharply, or the engine dies in the first turnover. It fires up with a plaintive cough. Kiara quickly checks everything’s in order, then shifts the throttle.

“Kie!” there’s a shout from the back yard. She turns to see JJ, his figure getting smaller as the boat moves from the dock. “Kie, damnit! Wait up!”

He sounds urgent, so she slides the throttle to neutral and waits. It’s eating into her swimming time and she just wants the cool water above her head and nothing else.

“What?”

He’s apparently full on sprinted from the porch. His breath huffs. “I’m bored as shit.”

“Congratulations. Maybe you should study and try not to fail this year.”

“Woah, harsh, Kie. Who pissed on your organic shredded wheat?” Kiara glares, and JJ raises an eyebrow. “You look like you’re about to kill a man. Need help with the body? I watched that Breaking Bad episode – we only need plastic tubs and shit tons of acid.”

“I’m going swimming.”

“Cool. Me too.”

There’s a splash as he straight up dives off the end of the jetty. He’s fully clothed, but that doesn’t seem to deter him as he cuts a straight line through the water. Has his hands on the edge of the boat and is hefting himself up in one smooth motion.

She keeps telling him to stop diving off the jetty – the Chateau is located on the edge of the swampland and it’s constantly changing, shifting with the currents. One day it’s deep, the next it’s mere feet between the surface and the bottom. The tide is persistent in dragging sand here and there, changing the make up of the landscape.

Kiara crosses her arms as she regards him. “I meant alone.”

“I can be real, real quiet.”

JJ discards his dripping t-shirt with a wet sound as it slaps the floor, leaving him in sodden board shorts. Tucks his hands behind his head and lies across the deck of the boat. There are smudges of mud and sand on his skin from the marsh water. He only gets up to rifle in one of the under-bench storage compartments, coming up triumphant with a watertight tin containing two pre-rolled joints and a plastic cased lighter. He lights both carefully and passes one over to Kiara, somehow able to determine that this is a joint each scenario.

Kiara’s glad for her sunglasses and how they obscure where her gaze is directed. It’s fifty percent on the water, hands steady on the controls. The other fifty percent is on the boy stretched out in front of her. Droplets trickle into the dip of his clavicles. His arms are accentuated in this pose – biceps and forearms alike, his hand moving slowly to raise the joint to his mouth. Smoke trickles from between his lips, which are barely parted. Kiara had never really realised she’d had a thing for forearms until the one time she’d seen JJ at the wheel of the van a few months ago, long sleeve t-shirt pushed up to his elbows, his forearms flexing.

The memory’s enough to make her flush anew. Has to look away, because she’s dead set against objectification of women and here she is, doing the same. Then she sneaks a look again because she’s definitely seen the boys sneaking looks at her, at various stages, so really she’s just returning the favour.

The joint is perfect. It takes the edges off her anger. She concentrates on exhaling and inhaling, keeping the joint shielded between tokes so it doesn’t extinguish. It really hits her, so she stubs it with half left to go. JJ’s cousin definitely knows his shit when it comes to weed and swimming when unduly high is not the best experience of her life. Sunglasses protect her eyes from the salt infused breeze, her hand curved around the wheel. Her gaze is sharp on the water (when it’s not on JJ, anyway), looking keenly for a shift in the sandbanks or the currents.

The engine protests with a grinding noise as she slows, tipping the tiller. It’s their usual swimming spot where the marshland opens up into the estuary, just ten minutes motoring from the Chateau. The water is clearer as the mud gives way to sand. It’s secluded enough that they’ll only see two boats maximum. JJ jumps up to push the anchor overboard, the rope snapping tautly against the side as it hits the seabed. JJ ties it securely around the helm, his shoulders flexing with the movement.

Kiara looks determinedly away and instead strips off her t-shirt and shorts. JJ’s double checking the anchor, then glances over his shoulder to her. There’s a flash of a wolfish grin and he dives quickly, arms stretched above his head, bare feet pointed in a way that she finds endearing. But she’s probably just high.

JJ surfaces quickly and Kiara’s poised to dive right in near him when he screeches, “abort, abort! Shit! Ow – fuck – shit!”

His entrance onto the boat lacks most of its usual grace – he slithers over the side and lands in a heap on the floor, still cussing. “Fuck – ow – Goddamnit-”

“What the fuck, JJ?”

“Fucking Jellyfish – Jesus Christ – why do those fuckers hurt so much?”

He’s pulling the hem of his board shorts up in what is an impressive display of thigh. Holding out his hand so she can inspect the red welts which are quickly rising across the back of his knuckles. Kiara’s pretty high, so she reaches out a careful finger to trace over the marks. JJ holds his hand steady, his lower lip jutted in a pout.

“You’re gonna have to pee on me.”

“That’s so gross – I am so not peeing on you.”

“Kie, it really hurts. And I’m out of pee. I peed like an hour ago.”

“I’m not peeing on you.”

“I’d pee on you if the tables were turned.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Look! You could ease my suffering. Kiara, please put me out of my misery. Anyway – I saw it on Bear Grylls, so it’s definitely legit. That one from the band had to pee on him. You know – that judge on America’s Got Talent no one could understand? Her.”

“Mel from the Spicegirls?”

“ _Bear Grylls,_ Kie.”

“Fine! Fine. Hang on. I’ll pee in my water bottle and you can pour it on.”

“You love that water bottle.”

Kiara really loves the water bottle. It’s a hydroflask that she’s customised by painting waves onto the blue background. It took her about three hours and she had to buy four different types of blue paint to get the exact colour she wanted. Has to constantly re-varnish it to prevent her design from chipping.

“It’s fine,” she lies. She drinks the remaining water from the bottle and points a threatening finger at JJ. “Don’t you dare look. This is a favour, a testament to our friendship, and I really don’t want you watching me pee.”

“Fine, fine,” he turns around, still cradling his hand.

It takes a minute to position everything – Kiara clutches the side of the boat with one hand and the flask with the other.

“It’s gone back up,” she complains. “I’ve got stage fright. Can you sing?”

“Sing?”

“Yeah – I don’t you to hear me pee into a bottle. It’s weird.”

“This whole situation is fucked. My hand really hurts. Can you hurry up?”

“Sing!”

JJ launches into a flawless rendition of _Superbass_ by Nikki Minaj that is so unexpected that she laughs. The motion triggers her pee and she shouts in celebration, snaps at him to keep singing when he turns around at the noise.

Turns out she really needed to pee. JJ falls silent and she hisses, “I haven’t finished yet!”

“Okay so don’t freak out, but there’s another boat-”

“Oh my God, I can’t just stop now-”

“You can’t stop? You should probably see a doctor about that-”

“JJ, I really don’t want someone seeing me peeing-”

“Hang on, I’ll just-” JJ scrambles for a towel and approaches, ignoring Kiara’s squawks of protest. The movement rocks the boat and it’s hard to keep steady as water slaps against the base. He stands a few feet away and holds the towel as a curtain, eyes averted to the sky.

“It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before,” he points out idly. The other boat motors past and Kie ducks her head, even though she’s shielded.

Kiara pulls her bikini back into place and tries to stand up in the most dignified manner she can manage, considering she’s holding a flask of her own pee in one hand. To JJ’s credit, the hand with the sting is angry looking and bright red.

“Here,” she holds the flask out. “Golden nectar. Use it wisely. Over the side of the boat! Jesus Christ.”

JJ shuffles to the side and extends his hand over the edge of the boat. Starts pouring, his nose wrinkled. “God, you’re really hydrated, Kie. This is basically just water. Good job.”

“I’m never going to look at that bottle in the same way,” she complains mournfully. “I think I got some down the side.”

“This is actually working,” JJ’s voice is disbelieving. “I can barely feel anything.”

“That could also be the weed – no, don’t you dare-” Kiara scrambles out the way as JJ approaches, the hand outstretched. “JJ Maybank – no – take your pee hand away from me.”

“I mean, technically it’s your pee hand-”

“Is it not enough that I provided the pee? If you don’t stop, urine trouble.”

JJ says _ayyy_ in appreciation and stops chasing her around the deck. “How long do I have to leave it?”

“I don’t know – ten minutes?” Kiara locates the discarded remainder of the joint from earlier. Blows ash from the end, clamps it between her lips and searches for the lighter. Takes a long drag once it’s lit as though it could ease her trauma. “Here,” she says, and she passes it over. “Basically medicinal.”

“God, I love you,” he sighs as he takes it. He’s shirtless and still dripping wet and his hand is literally coated in her pee, but he looks up at her with eyes the same colour as the sky – and there’s something like reverence, or relief. “You not wanting a swim?”

Kiara snorts. “Think I’ll pass. I’m straight up out of pee.”

JJ hums, his arm still extended over the side of the boat. There’s a silence in which Kiara can just enjoy sitting on the boat, the deck rolling slowly with the movement of the sea, the sun hot on her shoulders.

“Any reason you wanted to swim? You only go when you’re mad.”

JJ’s not looking at her. His gaze is focussed on the joint, which he rolls between his fingers.

“School stuff,” she dismisses easily because she learnt a while ago that he goes tense and quiet when anyone mentions parental figures. “I’m good now.” JJ seems satisfied. Offers the joint back to her. Kiara accepts it, leans back on her elbows. “Wanna go back if we’re not gonna swim?”

His shoulder rises and falls jerkily in a shrug. “We can stay, if you want,” he says nonchalantly. “I’ve got nothing else to do. There’s probably some beers somewhere.”

Kiara hides her smile by lifting the joint to her lips. “Okay.”

Later on, JJ regales Pope and John B with his tale of woe. Brandishes his hand as evidence, the sting still prominent. Pope snorts, “and I bet you tried to pee on it.” Kiara shares a look with JJ.

“Everyone knows that’s what you’re supposed to do,” JJ defends.

Pope laughs, his teeth brilliantly white. “It’s been disproved like, five times over. It does nothing.”

“It felt like it helped,” JJ sulks, sinking into the couch. He doesn’t look at Kiara and she’s glad he hasn’t mentioned her involvement. There’s precisely zero percent chance John B would let that drop.

She does mention it, once she’s had three more beers. He snipes something sassy and she says _shut up, pee hands_ and he grins sharply at her, eyes bright. And God, he looks good, the fire softening all the features of his face. Makes a dramatic show of wiping his hand down her cheek, so she pushes at him. His hand falls, rests on her knee and she stares at it – at the bumps from the sting to the purple of the veins beneath the delicate skin of his wrist.

Ah, shit.

*

_five._

Kiara dislikes house parties. Keggers at the Boneyard are much more appealing. There’s the sea and the sand should things get boring. There are always more people than invited and it doesn’t matter because there’s no one fretting about their carpet being ruined or something being smashed. She doesn’t have to keep a sharp eye on JJ to ensure he doesn’t knock something over or take something that would be missed.

There’s also the very real possibility that they will get shut down by neighbour complaints.

But John B and JJ complain very loudly when she voices her dissent. John B’s been back a month – the gold’s somewhere in police custody, along with Ward and Rafe, and there’s something desperate which curls around their interactions. Some longing for normality. Some craving for adventure that won’t wind up with a dead Sheriff, a manhunt and the Phantom at the bottom of the sea.

Pope shares her discomfort, but his eyes brighten and he bounds across the room when he sees a fellow school counsellor.

Calling it a house is a stretch, but JJ would get offended if she said those words aloud. It’s all one level, with a rackety porch leading to the front door. It’s mostly Cut locals. The air smells of salt and faintly of weed. Her converse stick to the lino in the kitchen as she paddles through a puddle of spilt alcohol. JJ’s right behind her, his shoulder brushing hers as they dutifully traipse towards the fridge.

Kiara shifts the grocery bag full of cans from one hand to the other, the handle biting sharply into her palm. Cracks open the fridge to try and re-arrange to fit them in.

“Nah, rooky,” JJ dismisses, and he’s yanking open the microwave instead. “Never put your booze in anything which vaguely resembles a communal space. They’ll be gone before you know it.”

“You should also never put metal in the microwave,” she reminds him, just in case he forgets. JJ stares directly at her as he yanks the plug from the wall.

“Oh, what was that?” he cups a hand around his ear mockingly. “Is that the problem solved?”

It’s still a game of tetris to fit all the cans into the microwave. Then JJ pulls two chilled beers from the fridge, pops the tags, and hands one to her.

He’s wearing a navy button down open over a grey t-shirt, and it’s pretty good. His hair’s all fluffy looking, like he’s indulged in some of John B’s products.

“Who you all dressed up for, anyway?” her eyes narrow as she appraises him. “Are those jeans _clean_?”

JJ’s jumped up to sit on the counter, his heels kicking out in front of him. “Dressed up? I’m not dressed up.”

“Your hair’s all poufy, and-” she leans in closer, takes an exaggerated sniff of his shoulder. “Are you wearing cologne?”

JJ knocks her away with his shoulder, pushing at her chin. “We play by Heyward’s rules here, Kie. No manhandling the goods unless you intend to make a purchase.”

“You better hope your goods get some manhandling, with all this effort.” Kiara smirks a little at him, even though something’s sunk down in her stomach like lead.

She decided long ago that it was better to be friends with JJ than nothing at all. Better to be in his life in some form than risk everything for the smallest chance of something more.

“You offering?”

It’s only now, when his voice is a quiet hum, that Kiara realises how close she is. How she’s almost between his knees. How she’s leaning towards him, one hand propped on the counter. Like he’s the goddamn sun or something. Blonde hair and blue eyed perpetually burning star.

He’s said worse before. He says worse constantly. But he does not say it like this – his eyes trained steady on her face. Trained steady on her lips. Words quiet, as though filled with intent.

“JJ!” John B calls. “JJ, you bastard.” The cluster of people in the kitchen parts, as people always tend to do before John B. He bounds in the roughly formed galley, eyes wide, a grin threatening to split his cheeks. “I’m getting whooped at beer pong – why did no one think of trying to practice with Pope, by the way? He managed to nail himself in the foot, which actually, is kind of impressive – and I could really do with your skills to try and claw back my street cred.”

“You got lost at sea and were presumed dead for weeks. You have miraculously returned back and spilled all the beans on Ward and Rafe whilst simultaneously maintaining a relationship with their now estranged daughter slash sister. I think your reputation will survive a defeat at beer pong,” Kiara points out dryly.

JJ’s dimples are extremely distracting, but well worth the effort she sometimes goes to just to make him smile.

JJ says, “I’ll be back,” directly to her as he jumps down from the counter. It sounds like a promise, which is weird, because Kiara’s attended enough parties with the boys by now to know the likely outcomes. JJ – with some girl he may or may not know the name of. John B – it used to be similar, but now probably calling Sarah and maybe crying a little. Pope – talking the ear off some unsuspecting victim, potentially ending up with a phone number he’ll most likely never call. Kiara will probably end up sharing a joint with someone. Maybe kiss someone else, realise it’s not doing anything for her, and end up sitting outside wondering if she’ll be alone forevermore.

Half an hour later, she’s completed the sharing the joint stage of her usual party progression. JJ’s being watched by several interested parties as he nails shot after shot across the dining room table. Then John B’s balancing a solo cup on his head and JJ’s still trying to nail the shots as John B swerves and ducks out the way. They high five every time he lands one.

Kiara retrieves another beer from the microwave and yanks the tag up, satisfied with the hiss that’s released. Through the archway, she can see that some girl’s asked JJ to teach her how to throw and it’s such a ridiculously obvious ploy that Kiara rolls her eyes.

The air is heavy with salt and marsh water when she sits on the back step. It’s cold and dark, like it always is in October. The light always seems to roll out of town with the last of the tourists, leaving the local and year-round islanders to fend for themselves.

There are fine grains of sand on the wooden steps which crunch under her Converse’s soles. Kiara rolls her foot over them, enjoying the noise.

After about twenty minutes of contemplation (it’s definitely not a sulk) Kiara pulls herself up by the worn wooden handrail and heads back inside. Which is precisely the same moment as Hazel Prince yanks open the door from the inside, cackling loudly. She has a four pack of dips – the Mexican inspired ones with plastic dividers – in one hand, and a bag of chips in the other. Her gaze is focussed on the inside of the house, on someone who’s chasing her.

Which is why she doesn’t see Kiara, and which is why the dips hit Kiara front and centre – salsa first.

Salsa, guacamole, soured cream and the other weird one they always include but no one knows what it is, slowly gloop down her shirt.

Hazel Prince is more than a little drunk. Gasps, “oh, shit,” then reaches out a hand and wipes at Kiara’s shirt.

It just smears the mess further, tiny pieces of tomato and onion dripping plaintively to the floor.

“I am _so_ sorry,” Hazel says sincerely.

“It’s fine.”

“I’m really, really sorry.”

“I said it’s fine.” Sometimes people call her blunt or rude, blink owlishly at her when she speaks. Just – she’s not particularly interested in getting to the exchanging platitudes stage, where she tries to appease Hazel’s guilt at ruining her shirt and now this entire event because there’s a huge, unmissable orange and green stain down her front. It kind of looks like a puke mark and no one’s going to believe that is isn’t.

Kiara pushes through the people gathered inside to the bathroom. Strips off her top which is a white and blue striped shirt and honestly, one of her favourite items of clothing. She likes to tie it up at the bottom in the summer – can wear it French tucked into a pair of shorts with the sleeves rolled up in a way which would make Tan France proud, or with jeans in a semi-formal outfit. She’s worn and laundered it enough that the fabric’s soft and pliant.

Kiara scrubs her shirt in the sink, using hand wash as detergent. It foams and bubbles wildly, splashing on the floor. It’s stupid to cry over spilt salsa. It’s also not stupid, because she’d been sat outside alone and no one gave a shit. She’s still one step away from everyone else and it stings.

“Kie?” a voice comes from the door. There’s a creaking of wood, an open palm hammering once on the door. “Kie – I know you’re in there. You’ve been ages, and people have got to piss.”

“I’m fine,” she calls back. She’d chosen the second bathroom just off the main bedroom precisely for this reason – assuming she wouldn’t be interrupted.

“You having a shit?” JJ asks, amusement lilting his tone.

“JJ – I’m fine.”

There must have been some bulk order on shitty bathroom locks in the Cut because he tries the handle and the door swings open with the merest pressure.

“This is spicier than I anticipated,” JJ comments as he takes in the scene before him. Kiara doesn’t have the energy to snap at him.

“JJ, I’m fine,” she grits out. “Can you please go?” She’s just in her bralette and cut off jeans. The bralette used to be white but is now a patchy grey. Her mom grimaces when she wears it, mutters that it does nothing for her shape, whatever that’s supposed to mean. “Just – shut the door.”

JJ closes the door obediently.

Kiara stares at him. “I meant with you on the other side.”

JJ shrugs, leans back against it. “What’s up?”

“What if I had been having a shit? You should probably stop barging into bathrooms with girls. People might get the wrong idea.”

“You definitely would have just said, if you were. And I don’t have a habit of bursting into bathrooms with girls. Just bursting into bathrooms with you.”

Kiara stares at the sodden shirt in her hands. She’s struggling to rinse the soap suds out. The bathroom smells of lavender handwash and JJ.

“Hazel Prince spilt salsa and guac on me,” she explains. Holds up the shirt to examine the damage.

“Shame,” JJ hums lightly, “those chips are dry as fuck.”

There’s not much room in the tiny bathroom. Enough room for a toilet and a sink. She barely has to turn her head and JJ’s there, broad shoulders and crossed arms and all.

His eyes are on her face as she half turns, flicking between her eyes and her mouth. He looks frustrated, a crease in between his eyebrows. Kiara’s tempted to press her thumb to it but doesn’t.

Instead, JJ reaches out and hooks a finger under the strap of her bralette. It’s – it’s grounding, his knuckle warm against her skin. He’s still staring at her face, but his gaze does flick once to her shoulders, to her chest, then quickly away.

“You want my shirt?” His hand drops and Kiara wants to drag it back into place. Instead he’s shrugging off his shirt. Almost elbows her several times, in the restricted space. “We can soak yours when we get back. Use vinegar or some shit.”

Kiara dries her hands on the crisp hand towel and accepts the blue button down. The buttons are on the opposite side to women’s clothes, so she fumbles, but then manages to do them. Holds out both arms in front of her.

“What are you, a giraffe?” she complains. “Why are these sleeves so long?”

JJ’s gone jumpy and a bit weird. But he takes the bottom of the pro-offered sleeve and rolls it up to her elbows. His fingers graze her skin. It would be easy to fold her arms around him. Push her nose into the front of his worn t-shirt. There are holes around the collar and it’s so endearing. So JJ.

He’s staring at the cuff of her rolled up sleeves when he asks, “you okay?”

“I like that shirt.”

“It’s a good shirt.”

“Really hard to find a shirt like that.”

“I don’t know. This one looks pretty good on you.”

He’s still staring at the cuffs, even though the sleeves are all rolled up. Usually he’d meet her gaze with a cocky smirk. Usually, he’d have made several comments about her underwear and about her compromising situation.

Instead he says, “you good?”

Kiara smiles and it’s not even forced. “I’m good. Thanks, JJ.”

“It’s cool. Never leave a Pogue behind, right?”

She’s still not much in the party spirit. Shotguns three beers just to check. She feels like there are eyes on her or something. Looks around every now and then to check. JJ catches her gaze, frowns a little and tilts his head at the look in her eyes. He appears just as she’s considering sliding outside with Jake Thomas who objectively really sucks as a human being, but Jake’s been shooting her looks all evening and Kiara knows there’s potential in the air. It’s something to do – something of interest.

But JJ’s there, short sleeves pushed even higher up his arms. He doesn’t even look at Jake – he’s stopping short just in front of her. Saying, “you look really good in my shirt,” indifferently.

“It smells all gross and like you. You do know there’s a whole world of products outside of Axe, don’t you?”

“You love it. Wanna split? Pope looks like he’s actually talking to someone, and John B’s giving relationship advice.”

“Fuck yeah. Let’s go.”

They end up on the porch, joint in hand. JJ brings out one of his sweatshirts when she complains about the cold and she settles down in his clothes, the smell of them engulfing her. JJ keeps snatching these looks at her, but his gaze flits away before she can catch it. It’s weird. If it were anyone else – if it were Jake Thomas, or Sam Dale – maybe she’d think it was flirting. Or some attention which indicated attraction. But it’s JJ – JJ, who’s attracted to everyone and everything but never specifically her.

Never specifically her, because she definitely would have noticed that.

*

_plus one._

There are finally some sulphate free shampoos in the Chateau’s shower.

Sarah is there more often than not. There’s a single mattress on the floor in Big John’s old room to save the pullout being overused. There’s enough room everywhere for all the Pogue’s to crash. Kiara’s parents have amped up their concern regarding her future and leave college brochures on her bed. She’s avoiding them more and more – has even started swapping her shifts at The Wreck so she doesn’t cross over with her dad as much.

There are also some wave friendly products which Sarah definitely had a hand in. Kiara can almost hear her hair sigh in relief as she smooths through the coconut scented curl repairer.

The door creaks as it opens. Kiara can hear it over the spray of the shower and stops, waiting. Relaxes when she hears JJ say, “fuck, what a day.”

There’s a smear of dirt or oil on his forearms and his hands are covered in grime. Kiara peers around the shower curtain to look at him.

“You’re a mess,” she tells him.

“You’re not.”

Kiara grins, steps back under the spray. Can hear the buckle of JJ’s belt as it hits the floor; the rustle of fabric as he undresses.

The water hits his feet as he steps into the tub. Kiara cracks her eyes open to appreciate him – broad shoulders, abs to make her drool. His hair’s damp and slightly matted with sweat and she can smell him – Axe body spray, engine oil, the faintest tang of sweat that’s actually attractive rather than off putting.

Sharing a shower isn’t nearly as hot as she’d once thought. Only one of them can benefit from the narrow shower head and they have to keep swapping. JJ chats idly about his day. Catches water in his mouth, hands holding his shoulders. It’s – sweet. Something she’d never associated with him before.

Of course, once he’s shampooed and body washed, he kneels on the tub floor and she’s not opposed to that – to tipping her head back under the spray, one knee hooked over his shoulder, one hand in his damp hair.

“JJ-” the door slams open, “where’s the – oh Jesus Christ. Kiara?!”

JJ’s jumped up at the interruption. Pushed her behind him in one smooth motion – forearm to her waist, his body in front of hers.

“John B!” he reprimands loudly, “you never heard of knocking?”

“I did not realise you were… otherwise engaged,” John B’s turned to face the wall. “Also – what the fuck?”

“Did you really think I was sleeping on the floor all this time?” Kiara perches her chin on JJ’s shoulder. Curves her arms around his bare waist.

“I don’t know – I mean – well, we’ve all shared beds before-”

“Can we maybe hash out these details when my dick’s not literally out?” JJ interrupts. “What do you want, JB?”

“I don’t even know anymore. I’ll leave you guys to it. Just – make sure you use protection and shit. Yeah. Okay. See you later. Love you. Bye!” The door shuts, then there’s the sound of him retreating, yelling, “Pope! POPE! You will never believe what I just walked in on-”

JJ looks spooked or unsettled or vaguely pissed off. Kiara pushes a thumb into the crease between his eyebrows.

“Was bound to happen eventually,” she points out. “It was fun whilst it lasted.”

“What? Us?”

“No, dumbass. The sneaking around.” Her hand drops from his face to his throat, tracing a line to his shoulder. Digs her nails into the flesh. “Also, don’t think you’re off the hook. Back at it.”

His hands skim the back of her thighs as he drops back down to his knees, smirking as he goes. “Yes ma’am.”

There’s a cheer from John B and Pope when they both emerge barefoot and damp haired into the living room. John B tosses JJ two cans, who pops the tag and hands one to Kiara.

“You shit,” John B accuses, pointing at JJ with his can. “You kept this quiet.”

It’s Kiara who slings an arm around JJ’s neck. Says, “he saw me naked enough times, so I thought I’d get something out the deal.”

“If you look too long at the goods, you gotta make a purchase,” JJ nods at Pope sagely. “Heyward’s rules.”

“You saw her naked before you even slept together? And you didn’t even tell me?” John B places a wounded hand over his heart. “This is news, JJ. To be shared.”

It feels good, to throw her legs over JJ’s and not have to worry about his hand on her thigh. He plays with the straps of her bralette, tucks a hand under her shirt. It’s more comfort than sexual; his thumb on her collarbone, sweeping over her shoulder. He’s leaning forwards, talking animatedly to John B. Beer spills over the side of his can – he jerks it out the way so he doesn’t splash Kiara. She appreciates it.

She also appreciates the way his eyes darken when he sees her naked. How he runs his hands over her sides in a reverie.

He says, “I looked, every time.”

Kiara hits his shoulder. “I know.” A pause. There’s less to lose, now. Less to hold back. “I didn’t mind.”

“It’s definitely my white pasty ass that did it. Who could resist?”

She sighs through her nose. Cocks an eyebrow at him. “Your technique could do with some finesse. Less barging. More subtlety.”

He noses at her elbow, his hand tracking up and down her bare back. “Got me where I wanted in the end. Kiara Carrera in my bed.”

“Personally, I think it was the jellyfish pee debacle that did it.”

There’s a pause. Then, pensively, “I mean – I did find that kind of hot.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, JJ.”


End file.
